~Days of Our Unlives 37: Comparison Shopping~
"Can I-"
"No."
"But-"
"Forget it," I say firmly, getting behind the steering wheel of the car.
He crawls into the passenger seat beside me and thrusts his lower lip out in a familiar pout. "You never let me drive, Angelus."
"And I never will." I start the ignition and turn to face Spike. "Why are we doing this again?" I ask, pulling out into the street.
He lights a cigarette and shrugs. "Labor Day. Barbecue. Copious amounts of red meat and malt beverage. It's an American tradition, mate."
"You're not Am-"
"Shut. Up." He points at a nearby street corner. "You wanna turn left here."
I don't even know how to get to the grocery store, and I frankly can't understand why any self-respecting vampire would, but Spike is frequently known to make "emergency runs" there. Although why chocolate bars, beer, cigarettes, and copious amounts of peroxide are considered emergency items I'll never know. "I just suspect that we're not exactly the guys for this job."
"Fine," he murmurs, blowing smoke rings casually out his nostrils. "You go back to Queen Bitchalot and tell her that she can't have her little party like she planned." I wince noticeably and he snickers. "That's right, Mr. Scourge of Europe. I'd like to see you combat the Cordy-Beast."
A cold shudder runs down my spine and I pull the car into the grocery store's parking lot. "Right, then. Let's do this." We enter the store and I pull out the list, written painstakingly in Cordelia's bubbly handwriting in lavendar ink. "Endive?" I sputter, peering at the list. "What the fuck is an-"
Spike shrugs. "Got me, mate."
"Tofu? Falafel? Hummus? *Pine nuts*?" I stare at Spike in confusion. "Did she make this stuff up?"
"Quite possibly."
"Well, what did Wesley want?"
"Dunno," he muses. "We suggested a few things, but he kept making that face. You know that face he makes?"
"Yeah." I squint at the list again. "Tabouli?"
Spike turns the list over and points. "And burgers and ribs for Phallic Symbol."
"Gunn."
"Yeah, whatever."
"You're one to talk, *Spike,*" I retort. "Fred will want tacos."
Spike shudders. "I don't like that girl, Angelus. She freaks me out."
"She freaks you out because she reminds you of your ex," I reply, scanning the selection of powdered taco mixes. Mild, Spicy, Extra-Hot? I'm so confused.
"Nuh-uh. Dru was nowhere near that creepy, man. I stepped out for a smoke last night and found her out behind the hotel, eatin' a tree."
"Eating a tree?"
"Yeah. Nibbling at the bark, like. An enormously disturbing image, if I might add."
"So... what did you do?"
He shrugs. "Asked her if she wanted me to fetch some mustard." I check his wicked grin with a slap upside the back of the head.
He grabs my sleeve and tugs impatiently. "C'mon, we need snacks."
"Snacks?" No. No snacks. I am here in service of the list, and there are no snacks on the list. But I'm already being led- okay, *dragged*- through aisles of candy, cookies, and obnoxious sugar-coated pastries.
"M&M's?"
"No." Spike has a tendency to blow all my money on junk food, and then gorge himself until he becomes sick, or maniacally hyper, or both.
"Snickers?"
"No."
"Milano cookies!" he screams excitedly. "With double chocolate! Angel, *please!!*"
"I said no."
"Cream soda?"
"No."
"Ooooh, cinnamon rolls. With icing..."
"No, Spike."
"Frappuchino?"
"FrappooWHAT?" Sometimes I think he just makes these words up to confuse me.
"Ice cream!" he shrieks, taking off towards the frozen-foods section. "Angel, they've got this ice cream with brownies in it, it's-"
"And that's just what you need. More sugar." I grab him by the collar and haul him unceremoniously down the aisle.
One hand darts out and snatches a box from the shelf. "Pop Tarts! Angel, you *have* to let me have Pop Tarts. They're nutritious."
"I seriously doubt that," I reply, gazing at the box of chocolate toaster pastries. We don't even *own* a toaster. Not that it would stop him; I watched him make nachos over the open flame of his Zippo once.
"It's breakfast food. Breakfast food has to be nutritious. It's a law!"
This, in Spike's mind, is logic.
I take the box from his hand and read the contents. "Spike, everything in this box is an unpronounceable twenty-seven-letter word for 'sugar.' Besides, you don't *need* nutrition, you'r a vampire, and- *why* am I arguing about this with you?"
He affixes his eyes to mine.
No.
"Spike-"
Flutters his eyelashes once, twice, slowly.
"Spike, don't," I say, a touch of desperation in my voice.
Sucks in his cheeks-
"*Please* don't."
- and pushes out his lower lip, ever so slightly.
"You realize how unfair that is?"
And pouts.
"Fine," I sigh. "We'll get the goddamn Pop Tarts."
He gives me a sunny grin, tosses the pastries in the shopping cart, and walks off, whistling.
*~*~*~*~*
He's such a slut, you know. He acts like it's just the pouting, but I know better. He knows that if he gives me my way he's gonna get laid. Okay, even if he didn't give me my way he'd still get laid, but I think it's better if he doesn't know that.
Ooh! Lobsters. In some sort of weird bondage.
You know, I bloody well love lobsters.
They kinda remind me of big huge spiders.
*~*~*~*~*
I find him amongst the seafood. More specifically, bonding with the live lobsters. He's got one out of the tank, waving it around and spekaing out of the corner of his mouth like a half-assed crustacean ventriloquist. "Oi! I'm gonna stake you, 'cause I'm Buffy, Bitch of Righteous Indignation, sworn to destroy vampires and keep everyone from having any fun."
"Spike, put the lobster down." It still amazes me, even after this long, how calm I manage to sound while making statements like that.
He ignores me, lifting another, much larger, lobster from the tank. "And I'm Angelus, Ponce of Europe, sworn to devour every pretty young blond thing in sight, literally and metaphorically speaking." Spike waggles the two lobsters towards one another as if they are conversing. "Well, I'm gonna kick your ass now, you hulking creature-of-the-night thing," the Buffy-lobster says. "All right, then," the Angel-lobster replies.
The two lobsters then proceed to get into something resembling a fight- it's hard to tell with all the eyeballs and claws waggling about. Then, juggling both lobsters in one hand, Spike lifts a third from the water. "Hey, stop that! I'm a Gypsy, I am, and I'm gonna curse you to soulfulness, bad hair, and poncey clothing until the end of time." The lobster waves its claws around as if performing some sort of complex mojo. "Oo, ee, oo ah ah," Spike intones solemnly. "Ting, tang, wallawalla bing-bang-"
"Is that the Gypsy curse?" I ask doubtfully.
"Uh-huh," he answers, dropping the third lobster back into the water and waving the second around as if it's having some sort of spasmodic fit. "Ohhh! Ahhh! I'm cursed! I must go buy paisely bedsheets now." He holds up the first lobster. "Wait! I must love you and stroke you and shag you repeatedly."
"It wasn't really repeat-"
"Shuddup." He then proceeds to engage the lobsters in a disturbing gymnastic ritual that can only be described as "lobster sex."
"Spike," I say in a horrified voice, "there are children here-"
"Yeah, well, maybe they could learn somethin'." Spike hauls yet another lobster out of the tank. "Hang on a minute! I'm William the Bloody, a.k.a. Spike, a.k.a. the Big Bad-"
"...a.k.a. an immortal pain in my ass..."
"-and I've come to kick all your asses, sing loud, raucous punk rock tunes, and eat all your chocolate Pop Tarts." The Spike-lobster viciously attacks the other two lobsters, who emit high-pitched wails and a few Gaelic curse words that Spike has picked up from me.
"Spike," I say patiently, "that's not how it happened."
"Yeah, well, it should've," he replies, tossing the lobsters into the shopping cart. "Would've been a lot more fun."
I slap him upside the head again. I have found this to be the cure for many things which ail me. "Go look for some goddamn endive."
He rolls his eyes, but makes his way towards the produce section without further mutiny. When I go to check on him five minutes later, I actually believe he couldn't be getting into any more trouble.
"Hey, Peaches!"
When am I going to learn?
I look, and to my horror, he's got a cucumber.
*~*~*~*~*
The look on his face is really quite comical.
"Say, Angelus," I call loudly down the aisle, "this is *much* larger than y-"
He's at my side in a fraction of a second, pinning both my wrists behind my back with one hand and clapping the other over my mouth. "Shut up," he growls in a voice that should be draining virgins and wearing leather pants, "or it's gonna take you weeks to remove that cucumber from where I'm gonna put it."
"Is that a threat, or a promise?" I retort, my voice muffled by his hand.
I know him well enough to know this is one threat he'll never make good on. Angelus never could stomach anyone playing with food.
Some things don't change.
~~((Cue freaky flashback music. If you've seen "Wayne's World," imagine Wayne and Garth appearing and making the "doodleoodoodleoodoodleoo" noise. And if you haven't, what freaking *planet* are you from? ~Shut up, Spike, that's rude. ~Rude my...mphthghgh.))~~~